by Stuart Woods
Troutman shook his head. “Right out of the blue. Never saw him before. Not that I saw him, with that mask on. I can’t think of why anybody would attack me, except to rob me. I have a few hundred dollars in my pocket, but he didn’t get that far before you came along. I haven’t thanked you properly. I’m very grateful for your help.”
“I’m glad I was there,” Stone said. “Why the move to New York?”
“I’ve never lived anywhere but Lenox, but my father died a few months ago, and I sold the family business for a lot of money, so I thought I’d make a fresh start.”
“Married?”
“Divorced, nearly two years ago.”
“Might your former wife want to come at you again for more money?”
“No, she got a very favorable settlement at the time, and she’s remarried.”
“Where are you living in the city?”
“At the Carlyle Hotel, for the moment, but I want to find an apartment to buy.”
Joan came back with a cashmere robe. “Mr. Troutman, if you’ll change into this, I’ll get your other things dried and pressed. There’s a powder room where you can change right over there.”
Troutman took the robe and excused himself.
Stone turned to Joan. “New client, new in town. Run off a copy of the list for him, will you?”
“Sure thing.” She went back to her desk, printed out the document, and returned to Stone’s office as Troutman did.
Stone took the document and handed it to his new client. “This is a list of names and addresses of people you might need to see or talk to at some point—doctor, dentist, insurance agent, financial adviser, real estate broker, etcetera.”
Troutman looked through the list. “Thank you. I’m sure this will be very useful. I probably should see the financial adviser first, since I’m sitting on a lot of cash.”
“If I may ask, how much did you derive from the sale of the business?”
“Two hundred sixty million, give or take,” Troutman replied, “after taxes. And I got about that much from my father’s estate. I was his only heir.”
“In that case, I’ll recommend a different financial adviser,” Stone said, taking the list from him and writing in the name, address, and number of Charley Fox, his own adviser. “Charley is accustomed to dealing in larger sums than most brokers, and he’s more creative in selecting investments. He handles all of my money.”
“I’ll call him today.”
“There’s another attorney on the list, Herbert Fisher, who works with me, and is usually available if I’m not. He works at our firm, Woodman & Weld, in the Seagram Building on Park Avenue at Fifty-Second Street. I work here, mostly.”
They chatted for another half hour, then Joan brought Troutman his dried clothes, and he changed again.
“The rain has let up a lot,” Stone said, handing him an umbrella, “but you’d better take this. Are you going to the Carlyle, now?”
“Yes.”
“Joan, ask Fred to drive Mr. Troutman.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“We wouldn’t want you to get all wet again, Mr. Troutman.”
“Call me Shep,” he said, shaking hands.
“Joan will put you in the car.”
Joan came back a moment later. “Dino on one for you.”
2
Stone picked up the phone. “Hey.” Dino Bacchetti and Stone had been partners on the NYPD many years before. Now Dino was the police commissioner for the City of New York.
“My computer says that some of my uniforms just made a house call at your place. Tell me about it.”
“I got out of a cab around the corner, made the turn, and saw a man—large, wearing some sort of raincoat and a ski mask and, come to think of it, a black baseball cap, kicking a man who was down. I hit him on the arm with my umbrella, then once on the chin, nearly missing, and he ran. The victim was my eleven o’clock appointment. Joan and I got him inside, and the rest is about as you would imagine.”
“How badly was the victim injured?”
“He’s ambulatory, but if I had gotten there a little later, he could have been dead. Are you keeping a watch on my place?”
“Not exactly. There’s a note in the computer that says call me if a visit is made there or at my place.”
“Thank you.”
“Also, there was another such beating, about the same time—same description as the attacker at your place, but on the Upper West Side.”
“Coincidence?”
“Maybe. I don’t like coincidences.”
“I seem to recall that.”
“Well, it’s too soon to panic. Dinner at P. J. Clarke’s, seven?”
“Done.” They both hung up.
Joan came in. “How’d it go with the new client?”
“Very nicely. I sent him to Charley Fox for advice.”
“Oh, good. Sounds like he can pay our bill.”
“He most certainly can.”
“He said he’s at the Carlyle. For how long?”
“He wants to look for an apartment.”
“For a while, then. He’s all alone in the big city?”
“Yes. Tell you what. Call him and ask him if he’d like to have dinner at P.J.’s at seven.”
“Okay.” Joan came back in a couple of minutes. “Yes,” she said.
“Did you tell him where it is?”
“Yes, I remember that he’s new in town.”
“Of course you do.”
“He says he’ll wear dry clothes.”
“That’s good.”
“I liked him,” Joan said. “Seems like a good guy.”
“So did I. That’s why I asked him to dinner.”
“He’s going to need to meet women,” Joan said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Stone said. “Anyway, when word gets around that he has as much money as he has, he’ll be swamped.”
“That much, huh?”
“That much.”
* * *
—
Stone got to Clarke’s a little early, and Dino arrived a little later. The bartender had already brought drinks for both of them.
“I invited somebody to have dinner with us,” Stone said.
“What’s her name?”
“Shepherd Troutman.”
“That doesn’t sound like a her.”
“That’s because it isn’t. He’s a new client.”
“And you wanted to impress him that you know the police commissioner, is that it?”
“That’s not it. How about we just tell him you’re a cop.”
“Okay. Why’d you invite him?”
“He’s new in town and alone, and he got beat up this morning outside my house. I thought he might enjoy dining with a view of something besides the inside of a hotel room.”
“Okay, you’re a prince,” Dino said.
Stone looked toward the door. “Here he comes, I think.”
He caught Troutman’s eye and waved him over and introduced him to Dino. “Dino’s a cop,” Stone said. “He’s the guy you call when you need some parking tickets fixed.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shep replied, shaking hands.
“You look a lot better than you’re supposed to,” Stone said. “How’d that happen?”
“Well, I was short on underwear, so I asked Fred to drop me at Bloomingdale’s, where they have what I want.”
“Okay,” Stone said. “What does underwear have to do with your appearance?”
“After I got the boxer shorts, I started out of the store, and a woman at a makeup counter waved me over and said, ‘You need help.’ She held up a mirror, and I saw that she was right. So she spent about ten minutes doing stuff, and I looked human again, so I bought whatever she had used, so
I can look human again tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” Dino said. “I heard about your incident this morning. On behalf of the NYPD, I apologize.”
“Oh, I thought New York greeted everybody that way,” Shep said.
“You seem pretty cheerful for somebody who got mugged recently.”
“A couple of painkillers helped. They made me a little fuzzy around the edges for a few minutes, but I got over it. Oh, Stone, I may have found an apartment to buy.”
“Good. Where?”
“The one I’m living in now.”
“In the Carlyle?”
“The manager told me it was for sale.”
“How much was he asking?”
Shep told him.
“I hope you didn’t snap it up at that price,” Stone said. “Look around a bit. Start with what else they’ve got for sale, and if you still like the one you’re in, offer him less.”
“How much less?”
“A third. He’ll counter, then you’ll finally agree. How big is it?”
“Two bedrooms, study, living room, kitchen, lots of closet space, beautifully furnished, including a grand piano.”
“Do you play?”
“A little. The guy who owned it was a big-time Broadway producer. He died a couple of months ago.”
“So the estate is selling it, not the hotel?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s the monthly maintenance?”
“Maid service is included.”
“No: real estate taxes, repairs, utilities, use of the gym, like that. Every apartment you would own has a monthly fee that covers those things. In hotels, it’s particularly high, because of the services available.”
“I guess I’d better ask about that.”
“You might also offer to rent it for a few months, to give you time to get the lay of the land.”
“Maybe.” Shep looked across the room, where two nicely dressed women were being shown to a table. “Funny, I saw one of those ladies walking through the lobby when I left. She smiled at me.”
“That’s something else every high-end hotel has,” Stone said. “Not that they’d ever admit it.”
Shep’s eyebrows went up. “No kidding? That good-looking?”
“Like your suite, they’re very expensive, too,” Stone said.
“After dinner, you two come by for a drink. See what you think of the place.”
To learn more about and to buy Foul Play, please visit prh.com/foulplay.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stuart Woods is the author of more than eighty-five novels, including the #1 New York Times-bestselling Stone Barrington series. He is a native of Georgia and began his writing career in the advertising industry. Chiefs, his debut in 1981, won the Edgar Award. An avid sailor and pilot, Woods lives in Florida, Maine, and Connecticut.
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